Scribble

The more vivid the worlds around us,  Our love is but a faint whisper on dark waters,  Somewhere, far away, We stand together, holding hands. Following behind trails of time and space, Searching for every face in every dimension- Where grief had never touched us, Where love would never be a fight to be lost.  There, you would never say goodbye to me, Stars would be aligned for us in the heavens. In another life, we never would have come apart, Love forever tied upon heart.  We would have laughed till our bellies hurt over the simplest of things,  Briefly basking in each other's presence. Our hands would be comforting one another, Tracing fingers across undefined territories of fear never uttered.  That would be our sanctuary;  Where silence would have been kind. Lifting all the weight from this world. Silence would have never frightened us there,  Instead, it would have embraced us, as something we both believed. But that's our cruel and temporary...

The lighter clicks again. not for the flame, but for the sound. It's a reminder that i’m still here. unfortunately my fingers stink of something that isn’t nicotine. Regret, maybe. Or the parts of me that  i keep killing in slow doses. It is i who lit the cigarette but it’s rather me who is burning, slow, like shame under my skin the smoke doesn't rise, it coils back into my throat some times it never leaves. what's more miserable here the ashes, the filth, or me? maybe it’s the silence after the exhale, like how my lungs forgot what to breathe without hurting, without aching The sky seems too empty tonight. no stars. no witness. just me, drown deep miserable  and a dying stick of hell,  that never judged me.  Every time i am burning my lungs out, that my chest couldn't bury and i wonder, if i go out like this too often.  What'd burn faster me or the cigerette. 

Every cigarette i lit, i burnt. i am the fire. i am the flame. i am the thing it destroys. the smoke doesn’t rise, it crawls, finds the corners of my body and  it sits there, patient, breathing with me, breathing for me. i don’t cough it out. i keep it. like a secret. like guilt you can’t confess because then you’d have to stop. Maybe i don’t want to stop. Each drag is a confession without words. each spark is the gavel slamming down. the sentence is slow,  drawn out over years,  i have time to feel it, to understand it, to agree with it. to die with it.  If the smoke decides to slit my throat, it won’t be tonight, or tomorrow. it’ll wait until my voice has turned into dust, until my chest has learned to ache without a reason. Until i’ve forgotten what clean air tastes like. by then it won’t matter— it won’t be just my lungs. it’ll be my thoughts, fogged and frayed. My will, thin and brittle. and when it’s done, there will be no smoke left to rise. just the quiet fin...

A hand dressed in red, pulling out fire from a  coffin shaped box. It looks like love, but smokes like ruin. The nail polish gleams careful, seductive,destruction   dressed in elegance. And maybe that’s all we ever hold things that kiss our lips, then hollow our lungs. A devotion in disguise, a poison i kept calling warmth. Even desire tastes metallic, Every silence after your name,  like blood at the back of my throat.  The mirrors whisper of all the ashes I’ve swallowed, the petals that turned to dust before I could call them mine. I whisper, it won't kill me,  Yet my hands are already stained. Nicotine, longing and you.  Everything burns before it begins. I am beauty and ruin in the same breath.  To love me is to inhale smoke, to bleed from a thorn, to hold fire  disguised as a flower. I am the ekanto golap. 

The first drop fell like her voice soft enough to be mistaken for silence, yet heavy enough to bruise the air. The streets darkened, lamplight bleeding in slow circles, as if the city, too, was holding its breath for her. The rain didn’t rush. It lingered on my shoulders, slid down my fingers, the way her presence once slipped into my days without knocking, without asking, just staying until I forgot how to be alone. The November rain never violent, never sudden, just the quiet persistence that seeps into every unguarded place and leaves you colder when it’s gone. The rain reminds of her warmth. And when the clouds cleared, the air still smelled like her, I tried to walk away , but found clinging to the hem of my breath.

From the garden of sunflowers, i saw the odd one and got stung by the bees. It didn’t hurt much just enough to remind me, that I reached for something I shouldn’t. What happiness is this, that aches in pain.  It knows it shouldn’t last, it’s scared of being real to be true. Maybe it’s not bliss  Maybe it’s just peace pretending to stay,  Before the chaos devours my soul. So I return to the garden again and again, Searching for that odd sunflower in the swarm, Hoping this time the bees will take  Pity on me watching me crave and leave me nothing to mourn. Still when the petal falls i'll gather them,  Press them between pages that smell like regret.  Still I can't hate the sting, the ache lingers and If the yearning stays,so will I, let it end me.